Chapter 14: In Which our Hero Sings for his Supper

If you’re anything like me (but maybe you got lucky and you’re not) you’ll know this feeling: there will be something on the news that makes you explode with rage. Say, some idiot gets behind the wheel, drunk as a skunk, kills three people who were just standing at a bus shelter minding their own Instagram and then he sues the bus company for placing the shelter near a pub. That sort of thing. Or a Belgian man locks up some girls in his basement and starves a couple of them to death before he gets caught, then asks for early release for good behaviour. Or a customs officer locks an old, mentally incapacitated lady in a wheelchair in a cold cell for a night, because her exit wasn’t properly recorded the last time she visited the country. Or someone invents the word ‘libtard’, only to distract people from a discussion where cops murdering black people like they’re fire ants is somehow justified. I could go on. Oh, I could go on ... But you know the feeling, right? If you’ve seen Disney’s Hercules, you may even know what I’m talking about when I compare it to when Hades gets angry. If not, never mind. But you think to yourself: ‘All I want is five minutes in a room with that guy and a bucket of water and we as a society are going to save SO much money on a trial and life imprisonment. Just give me five minutes and I’ll fix it for ya. I’ll pay for parking out of my own pocket!’ Don’t you?

Sound familiar? I get that feeling three, four times a year, and I avoid the news like I avoid Arby’s new Typhoid Supreme with extra Hepatitis dip. (They may call it something else, but I’m pretty sure it’s on the menu.) It’s the main reason I didn’t go into journalism: I’d get too upset.

Well, the day came when I was that man: the man they called on to deal with the lowest of the low. I got to do it. I was given a child murderer (and molester, let’s not forget) on a silver platter. And I smashed him like a pumpkin! I carved into his skin. I scooped out the filling. And then I cut off the top.

I punished him for every misdeed in that CIA file, and a few extra ones he probably did but that weren’t listed. I learned how to interrogate someone. How to break their spirit. How to hurt them so much they beg for death. Me. Martin van de Casteele. A nice guy from Leiden, the Netherlands. Husband to an honest to goodness Saint. Father to the sweetest little boy you’ll ever meet. Brother to God’s shift supervisor. Man who can’t sit through the restaurant sketch in Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life, or indeed any of the Friday the 13^th movies. Sure, I had killed six people by that time. I pushed one of them under a train and watched him get mown down. I fed another one into an escalator, feet first. I’m no saint, is what I’m saying. But this was some next level shit, aimed at someone who technically hadn’t done anything to me or my loved ones. And a black guy too, just to heighten the guilt. But I’d have done the same to Anders Breivik, you betcha.

It didn’t help. I’m not even sure what I mean by that, but it didn’t. I didn’t feel better. His victims were still dead, and those who mourned for them would never know justice was done. They might not even see it as justice. In fact, I’m pretty sure some of the children I ‘avenged’ would have been just as scared of me as they once were of him. They wouldn’t be grateful, they’d be horrified. As would my wife. And my son. (Kate ... not so sure. Wouldn’t want to test that.) And my punishment was that I went completely to pieces for about fifteen minutes, in a shower cubicle in a CIA office slash secret torture facility. I couldn’t speak at all from the moment Esobe was wheeled out of the room until I disappeared into the shower with a towel and a bottle of Adidas. Stein was in the shower next to mine and heard the whole thing. I wailed. I cried like a ... Well, like me. It’s been known to happen, after particularly taxing events. And Toy Story 2. I managed one round of soaping myself up to get rid of any blood spatters, but during the rinse I lost focus and just fell to the floor. Which is really not what you want to do in a communal shower, but there ya go.

I didn’t mourn Esobe, obviously. Nor the loss of my innocence. When you get to the point where you kick people off moving escalators and sleep like a baby that same night, innocence is like a train station you stopped at hours ago and only remember because you worked out if you could run fast enough to get a veal croquette from the vending machine. (It’s a Dutch thing, don’t bother.) But I think I mourned those children, amongst other things. Children who never had a shot at a good life. I know their names. I know some of their faces. I read the testimonies of the ones that survived. I avenged them and then I cried for them. For all the good that did.

You know what Edwin’s biggest problem is? Touch screens. He keeps lifting my phone from my shirt pocket and wants to see YouTube videos of toy cars driving through paint. But he can’t operate the touch screen and that pisses him off. His father is a millionaire. It will likely be the worst problem he faces until he finds out he’s straight and has to deal with women for the rest of his life. Some kids ... many kids, really, weren’t that lucky. And that hadn’t changed one bit, no matter how many fingers I cut off, or broke. What had changed, however, was that my wife was no longer married to the man she had fallen in love with. It felt as if that guy took a different escape tunnel than I did. I hope his took him straight home, and that he stayed there. Mine lead somewhere else. Here, to Saudi Arabia. A major detour, but maybe at the end I would still find home. Either that, or an oncoming train. I had no way of knowing, but the only way was forward.

I heard whispering, after a while. What’s all this? Leave him be. Just give him some space. Is that the guy from MI6? Yeah. First personal kill. Took him apart like a toy train. Oh, right. I remember mine. I’ll use the shower on the fourth, then.

Eventually I got up, rinsed myself off and prepared to face the world as a crybaby. Fittingly, all I wore was a towel. But I found John and Gerard, fully dressed and patiently waiting on the wooden benches. And John Stein, who I didn’t know from Adam, got up and gave me a hug in that way Americans have. It’s one of their more endearing qualities.

“It’s okay, man. You don’t have to say anything,” he said. “Actually, if this hadn’t happened, I don’t think I’d ever really trust you. Now get dressed. We’ll eat, and then we’ll work you so hard that you will have zero problems getting to sleep tonight. And that’s a promise.”

I do understand the CIA is not in the business of giving remedial lessons in spycraft to MI6 agents. Half a dozen people spent a lot of time teaching me stuff no civilian should ever be made aware of, much less instructed in. There would be a price of sorts, I understood that. But given that MI6 had basically given me false papers, a credit card, a sponsored car and their very best wishes to King Salman and then cut me loose, I didn’t see what other options I had. I had zero experience in these matters, I didn’t even speak the language (although I could eavesdrop on conversations by now, which helped a lot) and if I’m honest: I’m not that smart. Book smart, that’s what I am. Not street smart. I can’t even talk my way into a public library with my own membership card, never mind a Saudi palace. Not on my own, at least. I’m sure being beholden to an American intelligence agency is a bad thing, especially for a foreigner, but I am a celebrity of sorts. I can arrange an interview with any media outlet at the drop of a hat. I had to think there was some safety in that.

After three days, during which I had a grand total of twelve hours of sleep, Gerard drove me home. I was completely drained and exhausted. The last item on the list was a photo session in the camp’s dental clinic, where their swarthiest dentist posed for pictures with me in an office decorated with an Italian message board and even a box of dental gauze from an Italian company. I then spent three minutes in a hospital bed and posed with a smiling nurse who wore a silver cross on a necklace (which is practically contraband in Saudi). A sign in Italian reminding guests about visiting hours was placed on the wall behind me. I was also issued two subway stubs from the Rome underground, a receipt for a sandwich and change for said sandwich in Euro coins. I was afraid they’d even stain my tie with some tomato sauce and put a horse’s head in my bag, but they felt that would be overkill. Instead, they gave me a packet of ‘Regina’ paper handkerchiefs. Such cards, these Americans. (Or not. Sometimes I just can’t tell!)

I switched on my phone during the drive home and received seven text messages and three missed call notifications from Asim. He had wanted to hear how I was doing, and seemed ready to contact Interpol when I appeared to have dropped off the face of the planet. I texted him back, saying I was on my way home by way of Bahrain. He offered to send a jet to pick me up, but I replied I had rented a car. He didn’t seem the least surprised I was texting with him while I was driving, because that’s perfectly fine in Saudi Arabia. If you’re with the Royal Family, that is. Flatten whoever you like, really. The police won’t raise a finger. Just try not to do it on live TV.

Coming home was downright weird. Asim was waiting for me and spotted Gerard while I unloaded my bags. I improvised and told him Gerard was with the rental agency, who had provided a driver to drop me off. He then wanted to know all about my trip and the procedure, so I was very glad I had some pictures on my phone. I was in no mood to be making up stories about Italian hospital food and the view from my room, but I didn’t really have a choice. I actually believe he was a bit sad I didn’t bring him a present!

“So are you okay for the party on Tuesday?”

“I do believe so, Your Royal Highness.”

He sat on the edge of my bed, watching me as I unpacked my bag.

“Good! Have you ever been to Dubai?”

“I have not, Sir. May I asked what you have been up to in these past few days?”

“Business! I am working on some deals, you know?”

“I do not believe I’m up to speed on your current undertakings. Is it something with which I can be of assistance?”

“Maybe! Maybe! I will let you know.”

Right. Perhaps I should make a start with getting him used to the idea I might change jobs. After all, the idea was for me to be hired by his cousin. It would be best if that idea had some time to sink in with him.

“Sir, without wishing to pry in your affairs: I was under the impression you retained me as a business advisor first and as a servant second. It’s not that I long to mop the floors or do your laundry, but sometimes I fail to see what purpose I serve here. The palace provides this household with all services and if you only require a cook, I am sure there are more suitable candidates. You are often away with your friends and I must admit I am not overly keen on joining you, but it does leave me wondering why I am here, sometimes. Not that this country isn’t immensely fascinating, mind you. And I do appreciate your appetite for my cookery skills.”

He was quiet for a few seconds, while I dealt with my own laundry.

“Are you not happy?”

“No, Sir! I wouldn’t put it like that! But ... I have very little to do and I’m afraid I don’t have much of a social circle. And I must admit I miss having female society. Miss Keller was a very pleasant companion, and I had numerous friends in London. Here I have you.”

He considered that for a moment.

“You could maybe meet my friends?”

“Sir, your friends have made it rather clear they find it unseemly to socialize with a servant. Furthermore, they would have to speak English when you are with them, simply to accommodate me. And let’s not forget you are a much younger man: your interests and mine diverge, apart from our mutual appreciation of console games.”

He wasn’t that much younger, but Carstairs always seems at least two decades older than anyone he meets. Maybe I do as well, I don’t know. Asim nodded.

“So are you quitting?”

“No, Sir. That is not what I intend to convey. But with your permission I should like to explore if I can be of use elsewhere. Perhaps there’s a shelter where I can volunteer, or maybe there is a school in need of an English tutor. Something to fill my days and expand my social network, so to speak. But on the understanding that your needs will always come first, of course.”

He didn’t need long to consider it.

“Sure. Okay. Let me know if I can help. Maybe ... Arabic lessons? That would be good. You know? To meet people?”

There was no denying he had a point. By now I could eavesdrop on conversations, but whenever I tried to speak Arabic it sounded like I was coughing up oatmeal with thumbtacks. Not my finest hour. But I’d lost the appetite to learn Arabic a while ago and I was sure he wouldn’t actually raise a finger to arrange it, so I figured he’d forget about that soon enough.

“You’re quite right, Your Royal Highness. Now, what would you like for dinner?”

Sunday, August 9^th, 2015. suspecting.issue.lightless.

We travelled to Dubai the next day. When I fly I generally know about it at least a week in advance, but that’s not how things work in Saudi. Asim didn’t rank high enough to just order a jet whenever he felt like it, so he was waiting for someone to head out to Dubai on one of the jets in the royal fleet, and hitch a ride. It’s their equivalent of travelling on a standby ticket. And so I had my bags all packed and sat around the house, ready to leave for the airport at five minutes notice. Finally word came that a plane would be headed to Dubai later that afternoon, so Asim began to make some calls to get us on board.

There is so much I want to tell you. I found almost everything about Saudi Arabia luridly fascinating, and then I got to Dubai and learned about a whole new world of almost criminal debauchery. I want to tell you what I felt when we checked into a suite at the Burj al Arab, which isn’t the tall one but the one that looks like a ship’s sail. It sits on a tiny peninsula and even though it seems to have only about thirty floors, give or take a helicopter deck, it is actually over 320 metres tall and the third largest hotel in the world. Asim got us a suite on the tenth floor. Actually, he got himself a suite and IN that suite was an entire hotel room just for me! In fact, there were three of those, tucked away somewhere. That’s where the rich can park their servants and security personnel, you see. And I was chuffed to bits with that room, I don’t mind telling you. It was quite a bit better than what I had in Asim’s house. The suite came with a private butler, a very kind Malaysian man called Sutton who was about fifty billion times better at being a butler than I will ever be. He treated me every bit as nice as any other guest, though. That earns him about five thousand dollars per month in tips. He takes an unbelievable amount of shit from rich people for that, but it is tax free. I really, really want to tell you about it. In fact, I could write a book on that hotel and all the weirdness it contains. One restaurant is accessed via a simulated submarine voyage through a huge aquarium! It’s like Disney’s 20,000 Leagues ride, only they fake the view through the portholes with digital screens and some shaking about. It’s really very nice, although I think they should have made the portholes round. And then you end up in the restaurant, you sit next to a vast, circular wall of glass and you eat amazing food while fish swim past and coral plants undulate. And that’s just one of half a dozen restaurants in the hotel! Like I said: I really want to tell you about it. But I just don’t have the time, or the energy.

It’s mad, Dubai. Utterly mad. The whole place is mad. It’s still an Islamic environment, but they’re not as dour as the Saudis. If I ever write a book, which is doubtful because I’m not very verbose so I wouldn’t be able to fill it, I will set it in Dubai and I’ll write about all the skyscrapers (there are dozens), the opulence and the unashamed basking in unearned wealth while the rest of the world either burns, starves or struggles. Look, I’m Dutch: we’re one of the richest nations in the world. But we earned our wealth. We ship ninety-two billion euros worth of produce and flowers all over the world every year. Paprikas and tomatoes don’t just bubble up from the ground, you know! So we’re rich, but hardworking and modest. And we’re also Goddamned Bangladesh compared to these bastards. Dubai must be the biggest ‘fuck you’ to compassion and human fellowship this side of the Republican National Convention.

‘But Comrade King,’ I can hear you say, because I assume you’ll go with the easiest of the five or so names I have to bear, ‘what would life be like if we never used our money to build something fantastic? The budget for the Sagrada Familia could have done a lot of good for the poor, but then that piece of land in Barcelona would still be a slum. The circular floor to ceiling glass wall designed and built for the aquarium in the Al Mahara restaurant you just described required the invention of new technologies and kept a few companies in business for a year or so. And the Parthenon was hardly built on donations, but rather the spoils of war. Hearst Castle was paid for by the biggest arsehole of his day, but aren’t you glad it’s there? And didn’t you have fun in Las Vegas, looking at all that weirdness? Wouldn’t life be dull if we only ever tilled the land and fed the poor? Shouldn’t we be doing something weird and magnificent on occasion?’

To which I say: Sure! Surprisingly well spoken, by the way. But I am hardly against setting aside some money for the arts or a grandiose piece of architecture. There’s The Shard in London, for a start. Funded almost entirely by Qatari investment money, but built and staffed by workers who are subject to British laws and who receive a living wage and work under safety guidelines a bit more serious than ‘contractor must have body bags and at least one (empty) coffin on site’. Lovely building, wouldn’t want to miss it.

It’s the casual cruelty I object to, mostly. It’s the blood and the tears that have gone into this place, only to make something to amuse the one percent of the one percent. Now as an economist, or at least someone with a piece of paper claiming that title, I do understand that the pricing mechanism is essential in making sure we get to have nice stuff at all. The Burj al Arab only has 200 rooms. (Well, suites. They don’t do ‘rooms’.) If we priced them all at a hundred bucks per night, rather than the going rate of about 2500, the place would be overrun and your actual chances of getting in would be close to zero, not least because the place would go out of business in a matter of days. In Communist Russia prices were very reasonable, but the shelves were often empty. But Dubai shouldn’t even exist! If, a hundred years ago, you stood where the Burj Khalifa now stands, you’d die of hunger and thirst. Or possibly a scorpion bite. These people didn’t do jack shit, but then WE (whitey) found oil and gas and now THEY are the richest people in the world. At least Amsterdam was a trading city for centuries, home to the first multinational corporation (the VOC) AND the first stock market. We worked for our wealth. But what did these people do? And what do they do today, except sell their precious oil and use the money to buy shares and bonds that make money on the backs of others? To misquote the British comic genius Linda Smith: ‘It’s very inconsiderate of these poor countries to have our oil tucked away under their land!’

Look, we clearly need to have a talk about this, preferably as we tour the city. In fact, what I would like to do is meet up with you on, say, a Thursday at 10 a.m. at the Radisson Blu (it’s centrally located and like hell will I ever get a room at the Burj al Arab at my own expense) and then we can drive around and I can talk your ears off about Dubai until you open the door at a traffic light and run away screaming. That’s how much I want to tell you about Dubai. I haven’t even told you about the Burj Khalifa yet, which I very nearly only got to see from a distance. I also deeply regret not having visited the Bollywood theme park, or the world’s longest urban zip-line that runs between two skyscrapers. I want to take you skiing in an indoor ski resort INSIDE a mall in one of the hottest places on Earth, I really do. We’d have so much fun.

But I wasn’t there to enjoy Dubai, so I didn’t get to do any of that. I was there to be Asim’s butler and to kill a professor when he wasn’t looking. So let’s talk about that and forget about Dubai for now. I still have a lesson plan to prepare before I turn in. (Oh what, I spoiled it for you?! How would I be writing this if I died? You want to be reading one of them books with a ... what’s it called... ‘omniscient narrator’, mate. First person narrative means the author survived, at least until the submission deadline.)

survey.moods.founders.

I couldn’t tell Asim, but I was glowing with national pride. Two hundred feet from stem to stern. (That’s 61 metres in sane measurements.) Five decks. TWENTY guest cabins. A helipad. Semi-autonomous navigation. It can reach twenty-two knots. Two swimming pools. Central elevator. A lounge that can be converted into a 3D cinema with sixty seats. And it looked as amazing as Kelly’s tits resting on Kate’s buttocks. (Of course I’ve thought about that. I’ve never SEEN it, but I have thought about it. What can I say, it gets lonely in Riyadh.)

Yessir, The Crescent was a magnificent ship. Jaw-droppingly gorgeous. And ... designed and built in The Netherlands. You want luxury super yachts? Come to Oceanco in Alblasserdam. Bring about 160 million Euro and we’ll get you something nice. Dutch design and construction: it doesn’t get better than that.

Dubai has a grand canal which meanders through the high rise district. It’s about three kilometres long and runs from the Creek in old Dubai, which is a natural waterway going back hundreds of years, through Business Bay and then into the Arabian Gulf. It serves no purpose other than to provide ostentatious buildings with a waterfront so super yachts like The Crescent have a place to moor other than a regular old harbour.

The Emir of Qatar has a palace on an estate that borders Dubai Creek. The grounds are about the size of a Disney resort, but considerably less fun I’d imagine. The Emir had graciously allowed The Crescent to moor there and receive its guests. I didn’t get a chance to tour the grounds, I’m sad to say. We came in via a gate just off Al Seef street and all I saw was a treelined road on one side of the car, and a shopping mall on the other. There were armed soldiers everywhere, looking very dapper. Most of them had a machine gun slung over their shoulder.

Asim and I arrived around five p.m., ahead of all the other guests. The guard station wasn’t expecting us, but Asim’s passport was enough for us to be waved through. It was a hot day and the guard at the dock wasn’t happy about having to go out into the sun to show us where to park. I have no idea where the car we drove came from, by the way. Asim just took me to the hotel car park and produced the keys from one of his deep pockets. I’ve stopped worrying about it. Had he left the task of finding transportation to me, I’d simply have ordered a limousine from the front desk. It’s not my money, and there’s enough of it.

As we parked, someone on the ship noticed us and waved to indicate we’d been seen. As I stood there, marvelling at this amazing ship and feeling very Dutch for a second, a tall, white guy with short dark hair came to the gangplank. Catering trucks were unloading boxes towards the stern and sweaty Pakistani workers were loading them onto a fork lift truck to get them on board. The man who came to greet us wore a white outfit with black epaulettes that had three gold stripes and an anchor on them. Assuming they were merchant navy insignia, he’d be a first officer.

“Salaam?” he said, shaking Asim’s hand.

“Salaam. English?” asked Asim. He was very relaxed and clearly not interested in being received with any pomp and circumstance. If I’m honest I was rather surprised at that.

“Zat vood be easier, zanks,” said the man. I noticed his name on a silver tag: Gunther.

“I am prince Asim and this is Mr. Carstairs. My cousin Omar is running late and he has asked us to be here early, to greet everyone.”

“Ah yes, I vas told about zat. Vell, vellcome on board! Ve are still preparing for ze party. Our last trip vas to Indonesia viz van of ze princes. I vas told ve shoot be ready at zix zirty.”

“Yes, yes, six thirty. We won’t be in your way. But Mr. Carstairs would love to tour the ship!”

“Ah. Vell, I’m afraid most parts of it are now being checked by security. And zen zey vill be off-limits to most people. Vee are getting ambassadors here, and royalty. I mean, you can see some zings. But not every zing.”

We walked up the gangplank and saw people busily mopping the deck, cleaning porthole windows and basically doing all the things needed to prepare for a party. The senior officers were all white men like me, and anybody doing actual physical work was from the Philippines or thereabout. They wore red jackets with gold buttons, although most of those jackets were now hanging off the backs of chairs as their owners were trying not to die from heat stroke. I also saw some men dressed in black business suits. They wore plastic earpieces with see-through curled wires running to a receiver in their pockets and one was putting on a shoulder holster. Most of them struck me as Arabs, although there may have been an Indian or some such among them. I later learned most of them were Egyptians, which is one of the Arabic countries whose citizens have to work for a living. It does produce oil, but with a population of over 95 million their annual output works out to about 200 dollars per person. Your Average Anubis doesn’t really profit from that, but Egyptians aren’t so desperately poor that they’ll take construction jobs in Yemen or the UAE. Egypt grows food for export and was also a prolific producer of Arabic TV-entertainment until Kuwait took over that role and sort of became the Gulf’s Hollywood. Arab entertainment is all shit, obviously. Endless soap operas, dressed up as historical drama, and the odd comedy show which is usually as funny as gangrene in a toddler. You can’t be funny if your audience consists of pious people watching with the whole family. They do like their soaps, though, because muslims are very, very, very, very, very, very fond of pointing fingers and going: ‘Ooooh look at her! She’s no better than she ought to be!’ Only in Arabic, obviously. But I digress.

Gunther was clearly very busy, so he pointed us to a lounge and left us to our own devices. I find myself struggling to describe the interior of the ship, but I’m sure you can imagine the way these things are styled: anything that’s made of metal will be gold, or at least gold plated. If it has a vertical surface area of more than a few square centimetres, it will be covered in panelled wood. All doors are made from glass, either clear or frosted, and none of them can work like regular doors: they must slide open, quiet as a mouse. All horizontal surfaces are covered with black Italian marble. Floors are either hardwood or cream carpet. If a surface can be made to curve, it will curve. You never see an actual light source, as it’s all hidden behind panels.

It reminded me of The Beast, the custom RV my friend Phil lives in during film shoots, but with one big difference: as this was aimed at Arabs, it wasn’t so much white and sterile, like you’d expect on a ship from some tech millionaire. Instead, it was all very ornate. Every piece of wood was hand carved. All those marble surfaces were inlaid with geometric patterns, or flowers. Artwork never depicted people, but landscapes and flowers. Things that really don’t need curtains nevertheless had curtains, or at least some form of drapery. Anything with one leg, like lamps and tables, stood on a heavy, ornate copper base. I’m sure whoever designed this deeply regretted the fact that suits of armour and wall-mounted halberds are a bit of a safety issue on board ships. I saw a desk with three phones and two guest chairs, as if a lawyer had rented a few square feet here for his consultation room, and lots of long, cream leather sofas. And there was also a bar, which tried very hard not to look like one. After all, what is the point of a bar on a muslim ship? Still, I was fairly sure there would be a few hundred bottles of something hidden away behind all those doors. No bar stools, though. And no beer taps. That would give the game away.

Asim took me around the public areas and the rear deck, regurgitating half-understood stories and misremembered facts about dimensions or the artwork, but it was clear he didn’t really know his ship. He knew jack ship, I mean. He couldn’t tell his ship from his elbow, if you ... Why do I even bother?

We were on board for about twenty minutes when prayer time rolled around. By that time I had the app on my phone like everyone else, but a few minutes beforehand an announcement came on the tannoy.

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Carstairs of Arabia

Ron Dudderie

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